Everywhere around me, people are rushing for things—new places and careers, new relationships, new life, even—and I am watching them.

I want to go forward, to take a step, join them, but instead I stare at my feet, unmoving and, if I’m honest, afraid.

Most days, I want a blueprint: a very, very specific outline of steps to take, with guarantees and/or backup plans, if possible. So I talk to people who’ve been in similar situations, and they tell me what they did, whether they got their first apartment at 17 or had to work their way through college or stayed at their first job for five years.

But no matter how similar life stories are, they aren’t the same. Following your choices won’t guarantee that I follow your life. Your future can’t be mine.

And I don’t really want it to be. Not when I’m honest. In fact, I don’t really want advice, either. I think I just want someone to listen and nod and say, you know, what’s supposed to happen will happen. Because I believe that.

Meanwhile, I take easy change where I can find it, and, at least for me, that means the kind that happens in the kitchen, routinely, every day.

Like, I take a baby gold potato in my hand, set in on a wooden spoon and make quick slices, then smothering it with olive oil and butter, tossing salt and pepper and sage on top. A full bag of these goes onto a cookie sheet, slid into a hot oven that warms my face and hands when I open and close its door. In an hour: what was cold, raw flesh has become hot, soft and tender, fragrant and flavorful. The skins have wrinkled and darkened, the juices have sunk in deep.

Hasselback potatoes are really something special. Beautiful and intelligent. Requiring a bit of effort for something very impressive. I think they look like little snails, but that doesn’t sound appetizing, so let’s say they look like little fans—waves that are crusty and golden, juicy and crispy.

And the bit of effort that goes into creating them—the slicing and stuffing, which is mindless work—yields great returns when you look at these, but even more when you taste them.

That’s the kind of change I don’t have to think twice about choosing, which is, of course, welcome indeed.

Directions:
Preheat oven to 425 degrees F (220 degrees C). Line a rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil and drizzle olive oil on top to prevent the potatoes from sticking.

Take potatoes, one by one, and set on a wooden spoon, slicing top to bottom along the length of the body at even intervals. To make the slits larger, you can slice tiny bits of the potato out by slicing at alternating diagonals. (I did this with some and not with others – both worked fine.)

Set the sliced potatoes on the oiled baking sheet, being careful not to break them apart. Drizzle with olive oil. Insert bits of butter between the openings in each potato. Sprinkle sage all over. Sprinkle salt and pepper all over.

Slide baking sheet in oven and bake for 30 to 45 minutes, tossing the potatoes once after 20 minutes in the heat.

For some of us, we found out in kindergarten, say when we were the goofy pink pig in a school play, holding a large cardboard animal in front of our puffy party dress, wearing a big white bow in our equally puffy hair (later immortalized in photographs we’d see again and again). But there are others, I suppose, who didn’t know until high school or adulthood maybe, when they didn’t get the promotion they wanted or didn’t become famous, or, if they did, it didn’t turn out to be what they’d hoped.

Whenever it happens, we eventually learn: Not everyone can be the star.

And maybe I’ve just known this for so long that I’m justifying, but, here’s my take: It’s not so bad to play a supporting role. In order for anyone to be a star, someone has to be a fan. For every leading lady, there’s a winsome best friend. For every best-selling author, there are publishers and editors and illustrators, not to mention readers—the people who ultimately determine a book’s success. And in that way, we behind-the-scenes types play a pretty important part, don’t you think? I mean, how interesting would a basketball team be if no one watched it? How much would you want to see a movie with only one actor? Heck, how sad would this blog be if no one read it? [You all who do are pretty wonderful, and I’d send each (!) one (!) of you a dozen homemade cookies if I could.]

These rules are so universal, in fact, that they extend even beyond human interaction but to things we do on a routine basis. Things like the way we view food.

There are, of course, the rockstars of food, the ones everyone wants to eat and talk about: the steak dinners, the homemade pizzas, the chocolate tortes. I think of them as the popular kids who never went through awkward stages and won every award.

Everyone seems to overlook the cooked carrots or the boiled green beans. These everyday vegetables aren’t dynamic forces on their own—maybe more of the bookworms or so-called geeks, but yet they make a big difference to an overall meal, completing dinners, bringing out the flavor of starring entrees, giving you nutrition when you need it.

So I offer this recipe in honor of all the unappreciated, in an attempt to shine the spotlight somewhere new, somewhere deserving: rosemary-covered roasted red potatoes. Whatever you’re having for dinner this next week, I bet at least once, this so-easy-to-make, so-easy-to-love side dish will be the perfect complement.

Firm to the touch, red potatoes are more sugary than regular potatoes, but less starchy. And look at them! You can’t deny they’re pretty. Set on a plate with grilled chicken or blackened fish, they provide a punch of color with vibrantly rich red skins.

As these potatoes cook, the assertive smell of chopped rosemary fills the kitchen, pine-like and earthy. The oven emits a shrill scream, the sound of hot oil sizzling in the pan amidst your potatoes, mingling rosemary into the juices. And once roasted, these beauties turn stunningly golden, their skins crispy and wrinkled.

I like to pop them in my mouth one by one, biting past the crunchy exterior to soft, hot insides. They’re so tasty, I even like to eat them alone, as the starring event, you could say. It’s like one point for sidekicks everywhere.

Great Late-Night Food: One more thing I wanted to throw into this post, albeit on an unrelated note. DETAILS recently did an article on great places to get late-night food in several major cities. Did you know that Chicago’s Wiener’s Circle in Lincoln Park is open to 4 and 5 AM? Me neither. And I love a good hot dog. Check out the article here.

Directions:
Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Toss potatoes, oil and rosemary on a rimmed baking sheet. Spread out potatoes in a single layer; season with salt and pepper. Roast, stirring once halfway through cooking, until potatoes are golden brown and crisp outside and tender inside, about 30 minutes.

If it seems cliché for me, a girl learning to cook, to want (and receive) a Julia Child book for Christmas, well, maybe it is. But, you know, not all clichés are bad. That one about how a penny saved is a penny earned? I kind of like that one. And you’re only young once? That’s true, too. Maybe you’re thinking up some new year’s resolutions: Get in shape? Save more money? I say, What the heck. Let’s all embrace clichés.

Julia Child is kind of The Great Famous Chef, the one who brought French cooking to American domestics, who seemed so excited, so full of gusto, she made you believe you could cook what she could, even from your little kitchen. (And that voice! Was there anything so endearing?) So I wanted Mastering the Art of French Cooking, like millions of home cooks have before and millions will after.

To begin, I opened to the first chapter and set my hopes on potage parmentier or, leek and onion soup. Julia—we’re on a first-name basis now—says yellow onions are fine, and that’s what I had, so that’s what I used. This is French food at its most economical. I would suspect you have all the ingredients already, and surely you could make some time to cook them. The result will be worth it: a creamy, comforting, hot-on-your-throat soup with small flecks of soft potatoes throughout. Julia says adding extra vegetables is fine, so I threw in half a bag of baby carrots, chopped into small bits. This gave my soup a pretty, orange color reminiscent of pumpkin soup, and, topped with a little parsley to serve, this stuff looks as nice as it tastes. I ate two bowls immediately, and the next day, my family finished the rest.

Turns out, I didn’t need to make the life-size flag poster with black and white photos of Montmartre. If we’d only known then what I know now: just give this girl a cookbook.

New Year’s Resolutions: I didn’t break any from last year, but that’s only because I didn’t make any. Better odds, that way, you know? This year, I’m resolved to work my way through Julia’s cookbook, as well as exercise regularly and, well, the two should go together.

Directions:
1. Dump the potatoes, onions, carrots, water and salt into a three- or four-quarter saucepan or a dutch oven. Simmer the mixture, partially covered, 40-50 minutes until vegetables are tender.

2. After it’s all heated, mash/puree the vegetables in the pot with a fork or a potato masher. I chose to use a stick blender, which was fast and easy. The only thing I’d do differently next time is blend for a little less time; you want there to be small chunks throughout for more flavor. Correct seasoning by adding salt and pepper to taste.

3. Off heat and just before serving, stir in cream or butter by spoonfuls. Pour into a tureen or soup cups and decorate with the herbs.

NOTE:
The following may be simmered with the potatoes and leeks at the start: Sliced or diced turnips; peeled, seeded or chopped tomatoes or strained, canned tomatoes; half-cooked dried beans, peas, or lentils, including their cooking liquid.

The following may be simmered for 10 to 15 minutes with the soup after it has been pureed: Fresh or frozen diced cauliflower, cucumbers, broccoli, Lima beans, peas, string beans, okra or zucchini; shredded lettuce, spinach, sorrel, or cabbage; diced, cooked leftovers of any of the preceding vegetables; tomatoes, peeled, seeded, juiced and diced.

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"That's at the root of all giving, don't you think? At the root of all art. You can't hoard the beauty you've drawn into you; you've got to pour it out again for the hungry, however feebly, however stupidly. You've just got to." Elizabeth Goudge

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